


Miss Martha

by averageclawenfangirl



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Gun Violence, Romance, Smut, Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-29
Packaged: 2018-08-18 14:59:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8166010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/averageclawenfangirl/pseuds/averageclawenfangirl
Summary: Martha Pointsett has been dealt a bad hand in life. Who better to come along other than Joshua Faraday, the gambler with dark secrets and magic in his pocket?





	

**Author's Note:**

> _Now, this is what happens when I fall in love with Chris Pratt as a cowboy, and try to write a Mag7 fic. This is the first fic I’ve ever written to go so in-depth with a character that I’ve created myself, so I’m a little nervous. I did do research when writing this; but if you think I’ve been a little naive in any shape or form regarding culture/time period/character voice etc etc.. Please do let me know. I hope, whoever reads this, enjoys it. Martha and Faraday mean a lot to me. (TW for mild violence)._

The stains left by the glasses always bothered Martha Pointsett. She was sat at a bench in the saloon, and had been working on it for hours. The deep, brown stains grimed into the wood she spent so much time polishing. The job seemed fruitless; every time she made progress with one mark, a customer would set his drink down again without a care in the world, none the wiser to the hour she’d spent scrubbing till her hands were raw. _A reflection of her life_. Every time she made progress; saved a little money, built a little confidence, paved the dimmest path of leaving the prison of the life around her, something came along to tear it down again. Back to square one, over and over again.

She liked to think she wasn’t born into this life. Her mother; a sweet, small blonde-haired girl, had fallen for an older man who, at a first glance, appeared to be everything she’d ever wanted in life. Her mother had no family to speak of, no name for herself. He owned the only saloon in their small town; he had his own money, his own home. They married quietly, and she thought he loved her. Martha’s mother’s name was Essie, and people would come from miles around to hear her sing atop the bar, Martha’s father cleaning glasses with a smile of pride on his face beside her. Those were the images Martha clung to in the dead of night; when her mind tried to eat her alive and swallow her whole. That there had once been happiness before the tragedy. 

Essie was devoted to Billy Pointsett, Martha’s father. She was naive in a way; too blinded by her attachment to him to notice his steadily-growing drinking problems, the loans he owed from the gambling he so often took part in. It was only when his gentle protectiveness over her evolved into jealous rages did Essie begin to fear the man she once idolised. He grew fat; his eyes reddened from alcohol and lack of sleep, a tooth missing from one of the several fights he found himself in. Billy was a changed man; Essie praying it was just a phase, that somehow he’d shift back into the person who’d once been her saviour, the husband who watched her with adoring eyes as she sang like a songbird to the crowds. 

No such transition came; and when Essie fell unexpectedly pregnant, things only took a turn for the worse. Billy accused her of sleeping with other men; that there was no way the child could be his. In reality; he’d often been too drunk to remember shoving himself roughly on top of Essie, his delicate flower of a wife staring at the ceiling whilst she waited for it to be over. She begged and pleaded with him as he threatened to throw her out in the streets, and he abated; for some God-given reason Martha would never know. 

For the only reason she knew the story in its entirety was from the townsfolk around her; at least, the ones who hadn’t alienated her father. In a town as small as theirs; they’d been privy to the fights between the saloon owner and his wife, as they fell from grace before their very eyes. Essie gave birth to twin girls, the nurse stroking her hair as she named them, her voice weak from the trauma, _Martha and Lucille_. Essie had lost a lot of blood during the birth, the added stress of Billy’s constant threats no help to her cause. She passed into the hands of God not two hours later; her small, fragile body not strong enough, not even for her daughters, whom she’d proclaimed to be “ _the angels sending for her.”_

Billy, suddenly finding himself alone with two motherless infants, panicked and sent for his older sister to help. Jane had no maternal bone to speak of, and only agreed because of the money her brother was offering for her services. While Martha grew, Lucille was suffering. She’d been noticeably weaker than her sister from the start; and at six months old, her tiny body was ravaged by pneumonia, and she left Martha all alone, joining her mother in the sky above. Jane barely sniffed at the burial, rather joyous at the idea of raising just one brat, as opposed to two.

By the time Martha was seven-years-old, Jane felt her work was done. The girl was not undernourished, but she had almost certainly been starved of love. Billy had only become worse; his drinking habits totally out of control, men turning up at the saloon late into the night, demanding money or his life. It was no stable situation to leave a small girl of seven, but Jane could care less. She left with her purse fat with coins and without a backward glance. Martha was alone; left to fend for herself, to try and grow in a world that seemed set on stunting her. 

//

Now, Martha abandoned the stains that drove her mad, thoughts of her mother and sister a small comfort when life was at it’s most bleak. The nurse who had delivered her, Emma, spun stories of how much of a beauty Essie had been, how Martha had inherited her green eyes and pale skin. The dark reddish hair that fell in a thick rope down her back came from Billy; though her father was close to balding now, the visual connection between the man and his daughter near impossible to see. 

Martha wiped her hands on her grimy apron as she caught sight of her reflection in the cracked mirror above the bar. Her hair stuck a little in tendrils to her forehead; her cheeks reddened from the exertion of cleaning the saloon. It was late afternoon, now, the evening drawing in; she’d have to change into something a little fancier before the regulars came rolling in. Billy would scream if she didn’t. She hadn’t addressed him as ‘father’ for years, and never would again. 

After Aunt Jane’s departure; Martha was totally devoid of any parental figure. Sure, the townspeople who’d known her mother, the gentle soul she was, and her father before he turned to drink; they were good to her. The women from the church ensured she was enrolled for schooling, that she had at least once decent meal per day. But times were hard for everybody; nobody could take on an extra mouth to feed on a permanent basis. So, Martha grew up faster than the children around her purely because she had to. 

She had no choice. Her father would drink himself into sleep during the day; his few employees saying nothing to the often-dirt streaked little girl peering from the staircase to their living space above. Billy would rouse himself for the evening; knowing there were deals to be done, money to be made. Martha taught herself how to sew; how to darn her own clothes, how to boil an egg and make herself a meal. Billy brought home a pony he’d won at a poker game, drunkenly proclaiming to the customers that it was a gift to his daughter, in lieu of the twelve years of birthdays he’d ignored. 

Martha was a wild young girl; shunned by mothers and their precious daughters watching on as she raced horses and threw stones with the boys. Shoes were alien to her; her mop of tangled hair never free of a leaf or twig, dirt streaked across her face. Horses were second nature to her, and she built an even thicker skin than she’d had before. At home, she took care of herself as someone way beyond her years would, but outside the walls of the saloon, she was a free spirit, not dragged down by the father who only acknowledged her existence when he needed his glasses cleaning. 

_Fourteen_ , Martha now mused as she stowed away the glasses. _Fourteen was when I reined myself in._ She noticed all the other children her age; their parents mapping out lives for them, carrying on in the traditional farming careers. Martha had been taking care of herself for years; she knew she wanted, one day, to get _out_. To escape her father’s clutches, though he threatened - and still did - to kill her before she even made it past the town sign. As she grew older, Billy began to notice how precious a commodity his daughter could be. 

Martha had her mother’s beauty; her grace and elegance, her voice as she grew past sixteen. Billy told her she was to work behind the bar; keep the saloon in order. There was no question of an argument, not when his threats were so vicious even his words cut her skin. Men heard about her from other, distant towns; the pretty barmaid across the way, the one whose singing could stir even the souls in hell. Twenty-four years hadn’t hardened Martha’s spirit, not yet. She looked as sweet as a kitten on the outside, she knew that. Yet Martha knew exactly where to puncture a man with a knife, and how to aim just right with a gun for a confirmed kill. She could just never bring herself to hurt her father, no matter how cruel he may have been. She knew, in her darkest hours, that drink would eventually do it for her. 

“You even _try_ and leave in the middle of the night, Marth, and I’ll get ya. I’ll kill ya out in the damned _street_ , ya hear me?” Billy would pull on her hair and shout in her face, Martha wincing now as she thought of the pain. She never knew what her mother looked like, but took comfort in knowing Lucille would’ve looked just like her if she’d been alive. She pictured their faces in the back of the bar as she sang to the crowds; the two of them watching her with proud smiles, glasses raised, the way her mother and father used to. 

//

Martha headed upstairs, splashed cold water on her face, her thoughts brooding over the evening ahead. Billy had been gone for two days; he was to return that night, or so his scruffy letter had predicted. He’d been gambling big time, and for her own sake, Martha hoped to God he’d won big. Her father was almost tolerable when he won; when he lost, he was Satan incarnate. She dressed quickly, lacing her corset with practiced ease. Martha was braiding her hair when she heard the unmistakable sound of glass smashing from below; her father crying out blindly. It was not a rare occurrence; Billy was drunk more than he’d ever been sober, him crashing into things and breaking them a reoccurrence she’d learnt to deal with. 

Sighing with the weight of the world on her shoulders, Martha closed the door and descended down into the saloon. She heard her father moaning in pain; and in the dim light she saw him slumped on the floor, a figure stood above him. “I ain’t got your money, Faraday,” her father groaned, and she heard a chuckle from the man stood beside him. “Sure you have, Billy. Just as I know you’ve got the finest liquor for miles around hidden behind that bar. So, what’s it gonna be, pal? You pay up? Or I rob you blind?” The stranger shrugged with a laugh, and Martha felt herself pale. 

The liquor was indeed some of the best quality in the state; it was the other reason why customers even came to their town. If this man stole it, took them for all they had.. Her father would bring hellfire down around her ears, the saloon would close up; she’d be on the street with nowhere to go. As her father moaned incoherently, the man placed a hand over the gun in his left holster. Taking a deep breath; Martha moved from the shadows, clearing her throat. “You leave my father alone,” she said, in a voice much stronger than she felt. “And who do we got _here?_ ” The stranger mused, stepping over her father and into the gloomy glow of the lamps. 

Martha could see the man was already a little drunk, she knew that look too well. But he hadn’t yet been stupefied by the liquor; he carried a certain arrogance in his shoulders that most of the customers didn’t have. Their usual clientele were broken, old men, often too fat to even dismount their horses properly. This guy.. Martha placed him maybe six, seven years older than herself. Still a youthful glimmer in his eye; charm oozing from his mouth like an open wound. He was tanned from riding under the sun, his face worn beyond his years yet still playful, his body rather solid and stocky as opposed to overweight. He was gazing at her with curiosity, the one hand not hovering above his holster tipping his hat as he grinned. 

“My name is Martha Pointsett,” she continued, squaring her shoulders, “Billy’s daughter,” her eyes flicked down to her father’s limp form as he heaved himself to his knees. The stranger - _Faraday_ , her father had said - seemed to consider her for a moment; his green eyes narrowing. “Billy, my old friend. As a man of noble breedin’ and a champion of fair play, I’ll make you a _third_ offer. One hour with Miss Martha, here, and I’ll forget you ever even tried to beat me at poker. Sound fair?” He drawled, and Martha felt her throat close up. _No_. She would not allow it, she would not allow this man - this _Faraday_ \- to take her and do as he pleased. That was not who Martha was, or who she was about to be, and no amount of fine liquor would change that. 

“Take her, Faraday, for the love of _God_ ,” Billy moaned helplessly, bleeding from his mouth; a hand over his eye. “No - Billy, you _can’t - Father_!” Martha half-screamed in despair as Faraday advanced toward her. It was no good; Billy passed out, slumped in a heap on the floor. Faraday looked back at him over his shoulder, then turned back to face Martha. “Now, I ain’t gonna hurt you, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding his hands up, calming her as he perhaps would a skittish mare. Martha was no fool, she backed up against the staircase, reaching for the knife she kept in her boot. 

“You come any closer, sir, and I swear to God as my witness, it’ll be the last damned last thing you ever do,” Martha spat, her chest heaving. To her horror, Faraday simply laughed, hand over his heart. “Dear _Lord,_ ain’t you somethin’ to behold. I mean it - I ain’t gonna hurt you. Just show me your father’s bedroom, I’ll take what I want, and I’ll be on my way. Come on, now, darlin’,” he reasoned, his eyes flicking to the room above them. Martha realised she had no choice. Men were only so tolerant; he had two pistols swinging from his hips, she had a knife she hadn’t even retrieved yet, and a gun that was inaccessible in her position. 

She swallowed, hard. “Follow me,” Martha muttered shakily, taking one last look at her Billy’s sorry form on the ground. Faraday was on the step behind her, following her past the gallery and toward her father’s room, and he followed her dutifully inside. He whistled, comically impressed, as he took in the dingy interior, the unmade bed, the empty bottles rolling around the floor. “I made your dear old father close up the saloon back there before I nearly knocked him dead, so we should be undisturbed, at least for a little while,” Faraday murmured, turning to face her with an almost predatory grin. 

Martha felt her fear stirring; the knife in her boot suddenly the only presence she could feel. “I meant it, Mr Faraday, sir. I ain’t about to be used in some transaction between you and my father. I have _every_ right to defend myself,” Martha heard herself say. It was back - the look of curiosity, playing across his features. He was dressed in a filthy undershirt; bandana around his neck, waistcoat on top. His face was sheened with sweat; grimy with what must’ve been a few days sleeping rough, or riding hard across state. His facial hair was dark and slipped way past his jaw, his teeth glinting when he smiled, sinking down onto Billy’s bed. He was rugged beyond belief; handsome in a way that made her stomach twist. 

“How old are you?” He asked after a moment, groping around under a pillow with one hand, finding purchase with a half-full whiskey bottle. “Twenty-four,” she answered cautiously, still in the corner of the room, keeping her distance from him. Faraday removed his hat; resting it on the cabinet beside her father’s bed, his holsters followed suit. His dark hair fell flat against his head; Martha couldn’t help but note how less imposing he appeared to be. “God _dang_ it,” he exhaled, relaxing against the wooden frame of the bed, hands behind his head. “You look a lot younger, Miss Martha,” he said, a little wistfully. 

“What I look like is of no concern to you,” Martha said firmly. “You told me you wanted access to this room, that you’d take what you wanted and leave. I’d be grateful if you would stick to your _word_ , Mr Faraday,” she continued, hands clasped behind her back, nudging the pistol she kept hidden in the waist of her skirt. Faraday chuckled. “Despite what I said to dear old Billy out there,” he paused, uncorking the whiskey and taking a long drink, “I ain’t ever been one to play fair,” he smacked his lips and observed the bottle, Martha watching on in bewilderment. 

“You see, darlin’, what I seek here ain’t physical,” he grinned, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Come on,” he gestured to the bed, “sit down. I promise - I won’t touch ya. Unless, of course, you _want_ me to,” he chuckled, with a devilish wink. Martha felt herself flush beet red and hated herself for it; she was not afraid of this slick-talking cowboy, nor would she be embarrassed by him. “Are you used to men paying you for your time?” He asked sincerely, fumbling around in his pocket. 

“Lord, no!” Martha felt herself blanch as she replied indignantly. “I’m not that type of woman, sir. A lady can be whatever she wants, so I do believe, but that’s not how I live my life,” she said stiffly. This only procured another smirk from Faraday. “A dime,” he said, holding the coin in his hand, “for your thoughts only.” Martha considered him for a moment. In the ever-dying light outside the window, the little light coming from the burning lamp, Faraday looked almost boyish as he gazed at her, coin in his palm. 

Her upbringing had sometimes been guided by instinct; growing up so independently had heightened her awareness, her beliefs in nearly everything. Something told Martha she could trust Faraday; whether it was the tease in his eye, kindness she thought to be buried underneath, the smell of leather and whiskey that made her feel like _home_ the way nothing else ever had, the curve in his lip as he smiled. Martha took the coin from him. She sat herself down on the other side of the bed, keeping her knees together off the side. She ensured there was a little distance between them; Martha was never trusting to the point of stupidity. 

“You like magic?” He asked; producing a pack of cards from his top pocket, shuffling them with incredible prowess. Martha watched for a moment; transfixed by the speed and fluency of his hands. “Y- yes, I suppose I do,” Martha stammered, smoothing her hands down her skirts, avoiding his eye. “Pick a card,” Faraday offered playfully, and Martha was forced to turn her body a little, taking a card from the spread-out deck in his hands. _King of Hearts_. “Back she goes,” he imitated her to place it back. He shuffled again; with speed she’d never even seen in the games played in the saloon below them. 

“Is this your card?” He asked with narrowed eyes, holding up the Queen of Hearts. Martha shook her head; slightly elated to be able to shake his arrogance just a little. “Hm,” Faraday chuckled, “I know it ain’t,” he said softly, leaning in close to Martha, until his face was mere centimetres from her. Faraday didn’t move for a moment; his eyes searching hers. Martha wasn’t fazed; yet she was intrigued, his eyes set back under a powerful brow, the lines set deep into his golden skin. They were so close; Martha was sure he could sense the blood rushing in her ears, her heart rate spiking, her breathing a little heavier. “Because, _this_ is,” he plucked a card seemingly from behind her ear. _The King of Hearts._ He backed away, the intensity sliced in half, and for some reason Martha found herself smiling. 

“That is one hell of a smile you got, sweetheart,” Faraday drawled with a lazy grin; and Martha darted her eyes away, unsure of what to say. “Why did you offer to pay for my _thoughts_? Is there something about Billy you want to know?” Martha asked, keen to divert the attention from herself. “Believe me, I know _everythin’_ there is to know about old Billy Pointsett,” Faraday said with a shrug, shuffling the cards over and over again. _Apart from me_ , she mused. “Now, I do believe I am a paying customer, so why don’t you go ahead and tell me a little somethin’ about yourself?” He asked. 

“But, Mr Faraday, sir -” Martha began to protest, before he stopped her with a hand. “You can call me Joshua, or Josh, if you’re feelin’ friendly,” he said, uncorking the whiskey for another swig. “Drink?” He asked, offering her the bottle, and Martha took it. Feeling its warmth seep a little into her bones; the sky outside slowly fading to black, Martha felt herself relax a little. “Why don’t you just leave? Billy won’t remember a damned thing when he wakes up,” Martha said indignantly, trying not to think about how her father blindly sold his daughter to a stranger so freely. 

“Because I paid, and you took it, sweetheart. And I intend to get my money’s worth. Those are the words I live by,” Josh chuckled, taking another long sip from the whiskey. Martha was, for once, speechless. He was right, in a strange way. “So, come on. Talk. Tell me about anything - huh, tell me about your greatest _love,_ ” he said with raised eyebrows, finally dispensing of the bottle on the side table, once again folding his arms behind his head. “My greatest love, sir - _Joshua,_ was a horse,” Martha said simply, settling back a little onto the bed beside him. 

“Was it now? What was his name?” Josh asked, genuinely intrigued. “John Boy,” Martha said wistfully. The pony her father brought home, the animal who made her the horsewoman she was. “Then, Miss Martha, tell me all about this John Boy,” Josh said graciously, his hand gesture offering her to lead the way with her words. So she did; Martha regaled the story of how Billy had drunkenly come home with a pony no taller than his shoulders, screaming at Martha to get down there and take a look. Billy named the horse himself, and it stuck. 

Billy had thrown her roughly onto John Boy’s back, smacking the animal harshly on the rump, roaring with laughter as the pony set off with a young Martha clinging, terrified, to his mane. She told Josh how she begged her father for a saddle and real tack; she eventually learned he stole it from somebody else in their town. She taught herself mostly how to ride; how her movements flowed with his, John Boy’s limbs moving gracefully underneath her own. She would ride out with the boys her age in the town sometimes; her dress too short as she grew too fast, her hair tangled and face grimy, missing a mother’s sweet touch. 

She soon outgrew John Boy, but her father loaned him out to help with the fields around the town. Often, Martha would saddle him up again; and offer rides to the children. Everybody was poor; with little to do by means of entertainment, and Martha wanted to help all she could as she got older, to say thanks to those who’d been kind to her in times of need. There was something about the innocence of a child’s unadulterated glee, she told Josh, that was so pure it almost made her heart hurt. Then, one day, when she was combing John Boy outside the saloon, Billy spooked him with a stick on purpose, and he flew back in fear, a bone snapping somewhere. Despite Martha’s screaming protests, her father shot him in the head in broad daylight, the town coming to a standstill as they watched her fling herself over the horse’s body, sobbing in despair. John Boy’s blood trickled through the dirt to the feet of the children he’d brought so much joy to, and Billy disappeared back inside for another drink, laughing to himself. 

“That was the day I knew,” Martha said absently. She’d been staring at the wall for the past few moments, her eyes glazed over with unshed tears. “Knew what?” Josh asked after a moment, voice hoarse. “That I would never forgive Billy,” she said, drawing her knees under her chin. “Not even if he begged me on his last breath. He deprived me of so _much_ , and then took away the only real friend I ever had,” Martha said, her voice holding firm though her fingers trembled. In the years that had passed, she still had never forgotten the solace she took in sweet John Boy; fleeing her father when he became too much, burying her face in his neck. He was the only source of love Martha had ever known, and Billy robbed her of him without a second glance. 

The tears began to flow, though Martha tried to stop them. She’d put a cork in her emotions long ago, her father incensed and lashing out whenever she cried as a child. She didn’t want Josh to think the same; to see her as weakling, as less than his equal. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, looking away from Josh; dashing a hand over her eyes. “Hey, it’s _okay,_ ” his voice was soft as his hand reached out for her shoulder. She flinched; the only physical contact she’d had with a male was only ever violence, and she didn’t want Josh to take his chances with her now as her most vulnerable. She shook him off. 

“I believe your hour is up, Mr Faraday, sir,” Martha swallowed, turning to face him once she was certain any trace of emotion was gone. The moonlight shone on his face; highlighting the slope of his nose, the roll of his lips. He looked downcast, sincere for the first time since they met, the now empty whiskey bottle resting in his lap. “You make a man wish he was rich,” Josh said quietly, slipping his hat back on. He looked at her, then, reaching out a hand once more; gingerly, tenderly. Martha allowed his fingers and thumb to graze her cheekbone; across a bruise dealt to her by Billy for smashing a glass Sunday last. Her eyes closed for one, golden moment; his caress unlike anything Martha had ever felt before. 

“ _Faraday?_ Where the hell are ya?” The sound of Billy’s disorientated yelling from below them shattered the moment, Martha moving as though Josh’s touch had burned her. “Martha..” He said softly, but she shook her head. “He’s waiting,” she said simply, and Josh’s shoulders slumped slightly as he moved from the bed, securing his holsters. He followed her through the door; Billy pathetic on the floor below them. “So we’re settled, then? She make it up to you?” Billy wheezed as they descended the stairs, having hauled himself up onto a chair, a glass full of whiskey sat on the table beside him. Martha would’ve wrinkled her nose in disgust; the blood drying on his face, his hair matted, three teeth gone from his face. But she no longer cared. 

“She was more than worth it. Now, you keep your hands to your damned self, and don’t come crawlin’ around for my money again. You got that? I _will_ kill you next time, Billy,” Josh said simply. Martha watched as her father coughed up blood as he laughed; moving her feet as he spat on the floor. “Whatever you say, Faraday. We _both_ know you don’t have it in ya,” Billy croaked, and Josh walked toward the doors, indicating Martha to follow him. She could hardly believe her father’s audacity; the man in front of him had near beaten him to death, yet Billy still saw fit to taunt him. 

“Don’t you go far, girl! You gotta help your old man to bed!” Billy called after her, Martha ignored him. She’d deal with him after. The street was deserted. Josh’s horse was tied to the very same post outside the saloon as John Boy had been the day he died; Martha dragged her eyes away to look at Faraday. “I’m comin’ back for you,” Josh said, his eyes bright even in the dark night. “ _Excuse_ me?” Martha spluttered. “I gotta get a few things in order, but then, I’m comin’ back here, and I’m takin’ you with me,” he smiled, and Martha’s mouth gaped open, unsure of what to say. “And what on Earth has led you to believe I’ll willingly _go_ with you, Mr Faraday? I am _not_ some property to be brought and sold at will!” Martha hissed, infuriated by Josh’s growing smile. 

“Come on, darlin’, _anywhere’s_ better than here. And there’s so much you gotta see,” he murmured. Josh took Martha’s hand in his own, turning her palm upward, pressing a chaste, warm kiss to her inner wrist. “You deserve so much more, Miss Martha. I ain’t a saint by a long shot, but I sure know when somebody needs savin’ from hell. Hang in there,” he said firmly, swinging himself up onto his horse with ease. Josh tipped his hat toward her; spinning his horse around with one hand. Then, he took off; speeding into the night down the length of the town, the horse’s hooves silent in the dirt as they moved under the moonlight. Martha stood watching until she could see him no longer; idly wondering what Essie would make of the man willing to risk his neck for the sake of a better life for her daughter. 


End file.
